The Game
by The Artisan
Summary: The meaning of a certain game, for some of us.


I place the cartridge in the slot. I flip on the switch that says Power. The Game begins.

I watch the first block slowly drift downward. I plan the opening move; like chess.

I place the block at the bottom, to begin the Game.

The next block appears. The Game told me what it would be…outside of the grid…before it came. I now see the third block, already.

I place the second. The second means that I begin to build, to create structure. The third, and now a fourth; I begin to lose count: such numbers longer matter. Only the Game matters; surviving, in the Game.

But to survive, one must thrive. One must eliminate the problems. Solve the problems; solve the lines. Reduce the lines. Fluidly: with ease, or the Game will get at you; begin to unsettle you.

A first line disappears. I have lowered my structure of blocks. Made it simpler; carved away what is no longer needed. Room must be made. Room must be made for what comes after.

For the blocks continue coming, and will continue to come. I am undaunted. Such is the nature of the Game…the nature of life? Gaze too longingly at a nearly completed line, appreciate any part too much, and the rest overwhelm. There is no mercy for such, in the Game. No compassion for lack of follow-through: only for accomplishment; only for completion of lines. One must finish, and move on to the next.

Two lines at once now fall; more impressive than one alone.

More impressive a reward: points. They are what the Game uses to gauge; to rank. What have you accomplished? Details alone fall away in the Game. You must build something more; must always build…or perish to relentlessness.

I build. I watch closely, watch all sections. Study, even while I act; learn, and reason. How to bring the blocks together? How to make them fall away, accomplished and completed?

Style, I can begin to notice: my style, my nature. Do I take single lines, and chip away at my problems? Triples, now, and hack more harshly? How aggressive am I, how at ease with the situation as it stands. What do I see as the most important issue, the most pressing problem? How shall they be dealt with?

As with life, so it is in the Game: mine alone to solve, or perish in the attempt.

It is not my first Game: there have been others played before. And while I play alone, I am not always alone: others sometimes come. Some, to watch; others to comment: to suggest, to try to help plan; to try to assist, help the flow.

Sometimes it is welcome. Other times…less welcome. Sometimes they see things I do not. Sometimes I see what they do not. Such is the nature of life in many things; so it is with the Game.

But it is still my life. One I must face, with decisions I must face. So thus it be likewise. They will have their own Games, in their own times. Mine is here.

Concentrate.

Some come near. …This particular Game? I am not paying much attention to them. Perhaps visible to see in me: they say little. Only watch…until they too fall away, letting me be, letting me face the Game as I must.

It is not always so. Sometimes they strive…for attention, to take my concentration from the Game. Sometimes they yell, if I do not give such. Sometimes they accuse me of being too absorbed. Perhaps I might one day accuse them of being too absorbed in daily life? Too absorbed in day to day to see what is deeper?

No. Such would be pointless. One learns individually, or not at all. And this time, it would be without cause: this time, they've left me be.

The Game stretches on: higher levels. Higher speed, higher demands. More points still, for more impressive accomplishments: three, and now four, at a time.

Four: the highest. The most one can solve at a time; the highest scoring possible, for each level. Higher and higher a four's value, for each level. But more than just points, though, or numbers. Making the blocks flow to allow it, to allow such highs, four at a time…it is something personal; something…satisfying. Better than points. Better than the Game?

No: a part of it; something making it mean more, deep down; a satisfaction which is personal. To others, it will just stand for score. Only a few will see such maneuvers done while they watch from the side…and most, never to recall one set of lines over any other. To them, it is all about end results. The task itself…the working of it out….what many will not understand. And those that do? No real words to speak between each other what it is.

Flow: the Game flows on. I flow on.

Danger comes: the mind wandering, with time passing: thinking of the Game…what it "means," somehow. The danger: thinking too much, thinking so much that one forgets to act.

But it is lower, now. Many lines solved, done away with; simpler. Is there sufficient time to think?

It is a surprising Game, just like life is surprising. It is strange, like it: at the edge, with the next block, ever only able to see one step ahead at best, never two. Perhaps the odds are in favor of a certain block coming, but no telling…no true telling…if it will ever come when needed. It is a Game of self-reliance.

It is as harsh as living can be. Sometimes they come in pairs, in patterns, that stagger and challenge only what patterns one has built over the course of the Game…as if designed to cause trouble. As if the fates, or something deeper still, conspire; conspiring to cause trouble and headache, to make one desire to lash out in frustration. If only the next block were different? For want of a nail, kingdoms lost.

The Game becomes difficult: thinking too much, for too long a time. Blocks, misplaced: small openings, appearing amongst the lines.

Concentrate. Bring it back…bring it back to order, one block at a time.

There. And the Game flows on.

It requires self-control, like life does. Like martial prowess does…the art of war.

The Game is art, in its ways; like chess, again; like martial art, again. Not merely "an", but art itself. Expression of self, to be seen in the decisions made, in the paths taken and even those untaken. No two games, exact same played; no two lives, exact same lived.

Many fail to understand…many accuse it of pointlessness.

Perhaps.

Some say the same of life. Does that render it likewise?

Is it any more pointless than games that teach you to look only at the points, at the mission…at the fulfillment of others' orders and requirements? All the Game requires, when you play, is to continue as best you can: that you alone must be responsible for your choices, for your paths; for whatever they may be, no matter how unorthodox they might appear.

A thought comes, unbidden. Perhaps they _fear_ it. Perhaps they fear the Game.

So many other games, allowing so many to claim innocence: to cast forth claims of following another's will. Another's will, another's responsibility: follow orders, and you won't be blamed for much; for _as_ much.

They ridicule the Game: just blocks falling to pass the time.

They ridicule responsibility. Taking the blocks and doing something with them; taking the blocks of life and doing something, with no one to blame but self.

They ridicule themselves.

A smile comes to my lips. The Game flows on.

Thoughts come to me; of the words of sages, of philosophers; of wise proverb, from volumes that many name as Holy Writ.

"_Laziness makes people fall asleep; an idle person will go hungry."_

There is no room for idleness in the Game: to take it on is to accept its flow. Idle in the Game, and lose. Idle in life, and pass away.

Some undertake the Game without thought: challenging it solely to overcome a score, to reach a height, to make a name for themselves: to be a number…a _statistic_ of the Game. Not so very different, the lives they lead?

Other thoughts come, from other philosophers; warriors.

"…_My style? …The art of fighting, without fighting."_

A smile again tugs. The Game…is like that; challenging, but no resentment. No anger. Silent and sure strength alone: the inevitability of the Game itself; of life. Learning to be as such, in self: to solve, and resolve: learning from the Game.

Words unbidden, now from among the greatest of warriors:

"_I do not become tense, but ready. Not thinking, yet…not dreaming. Ready for whatever may come."_

…For whatever the Game gives, for whatever response the challenge must entice.

"_When the opponent expands, I contract…"_

…The Game begins to grow heavy: in pressure, in time left before I will lose by force. Concentration needed; concentration and reason: inch by inch…inch by inch. One line at a time: cutting slowly, minutely…so little room to work; the Game…claustrophobic? Long blocks, for four at once: being given now, when not useful? Push them to the sides, away from the center…if impossible to use, then not to be used.

"…_and when he contracts, I expand…"_

The lines cut away. Chisel down, to force the disparate, seeming randomness…together. The long blocks, now being of great use, even great need, seem not to come to me. The harshness, again…the harshness of life…

Frustration and complaining: accomplishing nothing. The Game only ranks accomplishment, not self-pity. Thus, I take, as comes; come, what may. The tower, the structure, begins building again: faster by far than far earlier in the Game.

In life, is it that it becomes the faster, or we, the slower? The mystery of it to remain: the Game, here, inducing it in its own way.

Some of the top lines, I deal with; some of the gaping holes, done away.

"…_and when there is an opportunity…"_

Outside the grid, the next block after this: the long, for four at once, to overcome the challenge the Game gave me. But the only place to place _this_ block…is where it would…block…the next. All other locations, to cause problems down the line, further still into the Game's flow.

"…_I do not hit…"_

What choice to make? Take the first and do what's best to be done with it, putting longer-term matters off? Or put the first in a bad spot? Damned if done, damned if not: art imitating life? …Or life imitating art?

"…_it…"_

Instinct: what is right in the end, unseen to reason's eye: instinct alone.

"…_hits all by itself."_

The first block becomes lodged in strange placing. The second flows instantly to the long slender opening, and the large section, four lines thick, vanishes abruptly. Room to work, to breathe, almost, achieved; for now.

Distraction: distraction destroys, in the Game. Give in to it, and difficulty arises before sentences even finish, on whatever subjects drifted toward. Give in to it in life, and adversities, chaotic or intelligent, arise; gain foothold, gain slow ascendancy. The only defense: to not permit it.

Intensity: the Game teaches intensity. The Game without intensity…is nothing to speak of.

The Game does not allow for "grounding" oneself…for the assumption of "well-grounded" styles in the handling of problems. Choose _style_, and something will arise that refuses to fit in. Choose style, and watch as atrophy begins. Choose style and ultimately fall: by your own hand, faster than what otherwise might have been.

The speed is not only considerable, now…it is drastic: becoming more and more incredible, requiring less and less thought; more and more, instinct. Failures begin to creep in…losses of room, seeping slowly upward, but a little quicker, and quicker still; continuing, inexorably. Misplaced here, misplaced there…no way to fill the nagging voids with blocks carefully crafted into position, as done before. So little time left, and I already know it.

What to do: what to do with the time that is left to be given.

…What would others do?

Would they fight? …Fight to the last breath, the last gasp, giving their all and more for a fight they are sure to lose, as inexorably as death and the final judgment, the final score, come on their own swift wings?

Would they surrender, finding no reason to slog on, to rage on, without hope of avoiding the final curtain call, without the hope of passing the buck of final score on to another? Would they despair of the Game, as so many despair of life?

So many questions the Game raises. So many unanswered, lying at the feet of those who fear to challenge them…who fear to look at them. Preferring their illusions; preferring other games.

I am unlike many of the others. I have played so long…played this Game, _the_ Game…for so long, and so often…that I am able to see it before me now, with the Game's speed now long since risen to incalculable. Or perhaps I slow in comparison, simply no longer able to keep up…? I am able to see the end before me, the end of this Game. Not completely…never in life, and thus it goes likewise…but adequate, an idea, of how soon before the end. How it shall look. What the score will say of me and the decisions I made.

Was it worth it to play? Was it worth it to play a Game that has no end save falling away, of being surpassed by simple events? …A question to be put to the philosophers, any day.

A unique treasure…treasure with peers countable on a single hand…is this Game. Teaching concepts of not only of life, but of death? …How to face defeat, and accountability for one's actions. Some face it better than others; some never face it at all.

It is what you make it to be…what you _will_ it to be. Uncountable, unknowable, the number of ways to structure and fashion a single progression of simple blocks…let alone differing progressions. Let alone infinite. _"Infinite diversity in infinite combinations,"_ someone once said. One wonders if they knew of the Game when they said it.

How many lives can be lived? How many ways can you play it. How many ways can life go wrong? How many are the blocks that cannot find a use for. How uncertain is life? What are the blocks that are destined to come next.

And above all: what is required of one's own self when life becomes unstable, untenable, unlike anything ever seen before in any history book, textbook, notebook or owner's manual.

I watch as the last block falls. There is no room left for it to legally be placed.

The Game is over.

I turn off the Power switch, not glancing at the score; it is not the reason why I play. I remove the game cartridge from the slot, now seemingly so light and fragile a thing; is it just plastic and metal, in the end, for all the paradoxes that are placed therein? I place the cartridge to the side.

Creativity; innovation; improvisation: it is the nature of the Game. It is its meaning…and, as dreamers and philosophers and all comers may debate, of life itself; one meaning, if no more than that.

And that is enough for me. It was worth it to play Tetris.


End file.
